Every Man
by Langleykel
Summary: An insomnia induced little one-parter...very SV friendly.


**Every Man**  
**Author**: Chshalogrl aka Ellie  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything or anyone. Alias and its characters are the property of JJ Abrams, the lucky people at ABC, and Bad Robot Productions.   
**Rating**: PG  
**A/N**:Okay guys. This is a really random little piece that is a result of my insomnia (It's currently 2 am). So if it really makes no sense when I wake up in the morning...I apologize. Anyway, I was working on my other fic...but I had major writer's block so I did this to get the creative juices flowing. It's really short...but next time I have writer's block, I may do it from Syd's POV if you're interested. Happy Reading!  
~Ellie

It's not everyday that a man gets to live out his dream.

  
Of course, not every man dreams of a life filled with predictability and monotony.  Then again.  I'm not every man.  

Or maybe I am.  Since the fall of the Alliance that's been my dream.  

_To be an every man._

Many expected us to leave the CIA.  Hell, we expected us to leave the CIA.  But when it came down to it, the CIA was a part of us.  An integral piece of our life together that, had we left, would have thrown a wrench in the machine of our relationship.  So we apprehended Sloane.  And we stayed with the CIA.  Not in the field, of course, but in capacities that keep us firmly grounded.  Where the most dangerous mission I'll go on is to the Starbuck's on the corner because they forgot to use soy in Sydney's latte.  It's the kind of life I always wanted.  And the kind of life I halfway expected to hate.  No danger.  No risk.  Very vanilla.  

_Vanilla is underrated._

I've seen many places, many things, and many people.  I've enjoyed meals at the finest of restaurants, Trattoria d'Nardi comes to mind.  I've flown in paths that would dissect the earth into mere shards of land.  And I have schmoozed with some of the highest members of society's upper-crust.  And yet, amongst all of the ritz and glamour of the job, I never lost sight of her.  Of what was most important.  Of the fact that I had by my side the most beautiful and astounding creature I've ever laid eyes on.  

_Through it all._

Sydney Anne Bristow.  

Sydney Anne Vaughn, if you will.

We learn about labeling our "favorite" things at a very young age.  As toddlers we go crazy with it.  Every person, place, and thing becomes our favorite.  Of course, as we grow older, we become much more particular.  

At five, my favorite person was Mickey Mouse.  My favorite place was Disneyland.  And my favorite thing was a pair of Mickey ears with my name scrawled across the back.

At thirteen, my favorite people were the LA Kings.  My favorite place was the hockey rink.  And my favorite thing was my hockey stick.

Funny how things change, huh? 

My favorite person is Sydney Bristow.  My favorite place is with her.  My favorite thing is the ring on her finger that binds us together.

_This is the woman I love._

Startling red wig, swollen jaw, and all.  I fell in love with my wife on some level as soon as she walked into the CIA.  And I fell in love with her more and more with each time I saw her.  Strong.  Intelligent.  Painfully intuitive.  Ridiculously beautiful.  She became the core of all of the chaos in my life.  She claims that I was the anchor that kept her from being swept away by the madness of life.  We fell in love and I asked for her hand on vacation in San Diego.  

In La Jolla to be exact.  

_La Jolla. The Jewel._

I thought it only fitting.

Our life is a simple one.

I arrive at work everyday to find Agent Sydney Bristow the staunch professional enshrouded in a suit and nylons with her hair pulled back to reveal her lightly made-up face. Sydney gets off work about an hour before me and she always races home to play the domestic goddess she's fancied herself to be since we got married.   I love Agent Sydney Bristow.  But there's nothing I love more than arriving home to my wife, Sydney Vaughn, clad in a pair of drawstring khakis and one of my "retired" dress shirts.  I love this woman with the long brown strands flowing freely around a freshly scrubbed face that boasts a pair of thin-rimmed glasses.  The woman who walks barefoot around our house declaring her eternal hatred for shoes.  She hands me a glass of wine and leads me into our beautiful living room where we talk about our days as though we didn't spend them at desks positioned mere feet apart.

_These are the moments._

Espionage makes you appreciate the small stuff like nothing else. There's a feeling of decadence we gleam out of the most mundane of tasks.  The vacuuming of our carpets.  The dusting of our furniture.  Sydney has declared Saturdays to be our official cleaning days.  And while most husbands would complain at their wife's insistence on cleaning (and I do a fair amount of that) I love that her main concerns in life are not life-threatening ones.  So I do my part.  I mow and edge the lawn.  Clean out the garage.  Wash our non-government issue cars.  And I walk Donovan who has decided that he too, can change his mind about his favorite person and has made it clear that Sydney is the frontrunner for the job.  By the end of the day, I'm usually a disgustingly sweaty mess that Sydney refuses to kiss.  So I'm forced to chase her around the newly-cleaned house and tackle her to the ground to retrieve my reward for a job well done.

_I love Saturdays._

Sydney likes to take baths before going to bed.  A habit I have encouraged through my gifts of extravagant bath salts, candles, soaps, and lotions.  After dinner I stay downstairs to clean up after our meal while she heads upstairs to start her bath.  It's comforting as I clean to hear the rushing of water through the pipes.  The sound that tells me it's bath time.  And even more comforting is the sight of my beautiful wife lounging in the midst of steaming water and frothy suds, with her eyes closed and a smile upon her face.  I like to sit next to the bathtub and just be with her.  Whether we talk or not.  I may bring a book or a glass of wine.  We don't take our time together for granted.  We know better. 

_Nothing is promised and nothing is guaranteed._

"It's time for bed, Sunsweet."  This is my way of telling her that her skin is beginning to prune.  She rolls her eyes when she hears it, but always she laughs because we both know that if I didn't say anything, she would never get out of the water.  So she stands and I am forever in awe of the beauty of my wife as the bath water ripples down her skin leaving sparse patches of soap suds clinging for dear life to the curves of her figure.  

_Smart suds._

I retrieve a towel for her.  Not a cheap and threadbare one, but a thick and luxurious expanse of fabric that you would only expect to find in the finest of hotels.  Another of my extravagant gifts.  Every night she'll wrap herself in the towel before leaning in to place a soft kiss on my lips and soaking me in the process.  Every night it happens.  

Every night I let it.  

Just before climbing into bed, Sydney sends a dimpled grin my way.  Those dimples are a staple of my nightly routine and once I am a recipient of that famous smile, I'm ready to hit the sack..  Changing into our pajamas is a silent ritual.  One during which we reflect on our respective days and mentally prepare ourselves for the coming of tomorrow.   I sleep in pajama pants without a shirt.  She sleeps in a pajama shirt without pants.  Together we wear a full set of pajamas.  

_Together we are complete._

Once under the covers, Sydney almost immediately finds her way into my arms.  After sincere murmurs of "I love you".  I hold her closely and shiver as her icy feet touch mine.  Once her breaths are even, I gently slide out of bed and repeat my nightly ritual of rolling bulky socks over her cold toes.  Climbing quietly back into bed, I pull my wife back into a spooning position and smile as she sleepily twines her fingers with mine.  Brushing her damp hair back from her face, I observe the beauty I have long since been so enamored with.  Long dark lashes resting against lightly freckled skin.  Full lips turned upward toward well-defined cheekbones.  With her features committed to mind, my head hits my pillow and I prepare to dream.

My dream was to be an every man.  

_I'm not an every man,._

I have Sydney.

I'm the luckiest man in the world.


End file.
